


Best Intentions

by orphan_account



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: AU, College Roommates, Duo is an Awful Neighbor, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Gen, Heero is a moody little somebody, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nurse Quatre, Semi-Platonic Cuddling for Warmth, Tropes, Tumblr Prompt, end of summer block party, sick!fic, somewhat belatedly, with the potential for more than friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Heero’s roommate was annoying enough on any average day. Then, he caught the flu.





	Best Intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> maevemauvaise and kangofu-cb put the bug in my ear when we were tossing around ideas for Tropefest a month ago: "I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but you are going to eat this chicken soup and go back to bed or so help me God, I will drown you in NyQuil!”
> 
> So, that explains this. I never said I was sane.

“God, it’s like you taped a line down the middle of the room,” Trowa muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just… night and day. Wow.”

“Yeah. Well.” Quatre rubbed his nape and shrugged. “Just goes to show that the universe has a sick sense of humor.”

Trowa straddled Quatre’s desk chair backwards, letting his long arms dangle over it. “Most people turn in those little common interest questionnaire cards and get someone they have _something_ in common with. Favorite music. Non-smoker. Social butterfly. Athletic. Couch potato. Just enough similarities to prove you’re from the same planet, at least.”

“And instead, I end up rooming with the Grim Reaper.”

“No. No, I think ‘Lord of the Underworld’ is more accurate.”

“Hades has more fashion sense than my roommate,” Quatre deadpanned.

Trowa snickered, shaking his head and making his hair flop further over his eyes. “That just put the most _awesome_ mental image in my head of you as Persephone.”

Quatre made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “That’s it. Out. Out of my room with you.”

“Kidding, kidding…”

“I just wish there wasn’t quite so much… black.”

“It’s not _all_ black. There’s a little gray.”

“Trowa, that’s just _light_ black.”

Heero’s side of the dorm frightened Quatre a little, if he was being honest. Bath towels. Sheets. Pillows. Comforter. Picture frames. Shower caddy. Desk accessories. All black. The bulk of his wardrobe? All black. Shoes? All black. His guitar case? Black. His soul?

You could take a shot in the dark.

Heero only had a couple of posters on the wall. Unlike most of the incoming freshman on their floor, Heero didn’t have any old prom or sports photos from high school, no Grad Night paraphernalia or photo collages to give Quatre any clue to his roots. He seldom spent any time in the dorm, either, so it wasn’t like Quatre had the opportunity to get to know him any better with good ol’ fashioned _talking_. 

Heero wasn’t much for talking. Or even “peopling.”

“C’mon,” Trowa told him. “Let’s grab a quick venti before lab.”

Before Quatre could stuff his wallet into his pocket, the doorknob jiggled from a key being crammed into it, and Heero swept inside, letting the door bang up against the wall. He tossed his backpack onto his bed and went to his dresser. “What’s up?” he greeted without even looking at them. He yanked open the drawer and took out a fresh shirt, tossed it onto the dresser, and then stripped off the one he had on, heedless of his audience. While Heero puzzled out that he’d put the shirt away inside-out, Quatre stared at his bare torso.

Silently. Drooling.

“What do you have next?” he demanded.

“Lab.” Quatre’s mouth felt like it wouldn’t work.

“Hn. Cool.” Heero jerked on the shirt, threw it in the general direction of his laundry bag, and grabbed his backpack in one smooth motion as he headed for the door. “Your turn to take out the trash, Q.”

“What? But-”

“Later.” _SLAM._

“The hell…?” Trowa looked amused and appalled.

“That’s what I deal with every day. That’s my roommate in a _good_ mood.”

“I’m so glad I ended up with Zechs. He’s almost never there, and he’s mellow. He’s a neat freak, but we gel.”

“Let’s just go,” Quatre muttered.

He still needed a moment to compose himself, but he would never tell Trowa that.

Trowa knew anyway, if his best friend’s momentary “deer in the headlights” look was any indication.

*

Heero ignored him whenever he passed him in the library, making copies of his references or paging through microfiche slides. Sometimes, he’d nod. Sometimes.

*

Frat house mixers. Just wasn’t Heero’s crowd. Quatre felt the strange mixture of relief that his roommate wasn’t there to scowl at him, and vaguely bereft as he wondered what he was doing instead. 

*

Quatre walked in on Heero sitting on his bed, slumped back against the pillows and practicing guitar. He recognized the opening chords to “Black Hole Sun” has he set down his books and gym bag. “Soundgarden?”

“Kind of.”

“Know any of their other songs?”

“Eh.”

Okay. 

Heero just strummed and hummed to himself, and Quatre didn’t make any other attempts at conversation beyond “I was hoping to come back here for a nap. I’m whipped.”

Heero abruptly stopped playing and exhaled a loud sigh. “Fine. Y’know what? Fine.” Heero rose from the bed without looking at his roommate, slung the guitar strap over his shoulder, and strode out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Quatre growled under his breath, “What. The. Fuck.” On the one hand, hello? Unnecessary?

On the other hand, Quatre had the room to himself. Heero wouldn’t scowl holes in his back while he slept. Quatre pulled the blinds, stripped down to his briefs, and crawled into bed. He dreamt that the residence office made a grave mistake, and that his real roommate got lost on his way to bringing him a Jamba Juice and Starbucks pound cake. His dream roommate was a morning person and liked neutral colors. And dogs. And talking.

It was such a _nice_ dream.

When Quatre woke up two hours later, almost as bleary and tired as he was before, he headed to the men’s showers to brush his teeth. He heard a flush from the stalls, and Heero came out to wash his hands at the adjacent sink.

“Feeling better, Sleeping Beauty?” 

Quatre just kept brushing his teeth. He caught Heero’s eyes in the mirror, heard his huff of annoyance. Quatre shrugged at him and kept brushing.

“I’m headed back to _our room_ , now,” he informed him coolly. 

“Nn’kay,” Quatre told him through a mouthful of minty foam.

At least you couldn’t slam the bathroom door. Small mercies.

*

 

They just didn’t “mesh.”

No friends in common, but Heero was almost cordial to Trowa. Sort of. They hated each other’s music. Heero grumbled half-hearted greetings whenever Iria came to visit, which irked Quatre no end. Heero’s family never visited him, and Quatre knew enough not to press. 

They argued about the use of the mini fridge. When Quatre noticed one of his protein shakes missing, he got a nasty “Well, if you’re gonna be a baby about it…” right before - you guessed it - Heero stomped out the door, and then stomped back in five minutes later with a whole six-pack of the shakes under his arm, and then dropped it on Quatre’s bed beside him. “Happy?”

“You didn’t have to-”

_SLAM._

“Right,” Quatre muttered to no one in particular.

It wasn’t like Quatre didn’t have friends. It just would have been nice, to have a confidante who he could “come home to” while he was away from home. An ear to bend. Maybe even a partner in crime for things like late night pizza deliveries or someone to wander down to the TV room with to watch “Family Feud” with. Quatre just wanted his roommate to _like him_ a little. Just a little.

*

 

Quatre looked up from his organic chemistry text at the sound of sharp knocking. He answered it to find Duo on the other side of the door, grinning at him before he barged his way in. “Hey, darlin’. You’re looking very lavender today.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Seriously. Good look. Works for you. Got any laundry detergent?”

Quatre sighed, then handed him his bottle of Arm and Hammer Clean Scent. “Here you go. Don’t use too much of it, please.”

“You’re a saint. My bed sheets need some attention.”

“Please don’t tell me about it.”

“What? So they’re a little crusty.”

“Oh, God, no…”

“Fei said he’s gonna burn ‘em if I don’t wash them today. So you’re saving a life, buddy.”

“I have… no words.”

“I’ll bring this back later. Promise.” He glanced at Heero’s side of the room. “Where’s Short, Dark and Grumpy?”

“He didn’t mention where he was going.”

“You don’t find that heartbreaking.”

“I don’t, no.”

“Right. I’m gonna do some laundry. You’re an angel.” Duo reached out and ruffled Quatre’s carefully styled hair until he swatted at his hand.

“And you suck!”

“Later, Q.”

All right. Heero was a dick, but at least he was clean. Quatre didn’t even want to _think_ about Duo’s bed sheets.

 

*

Sally was the first person on their floor to catch the ick.

A week after Halloween, she dragged into the dining hall, rasping out “I feel like shit. My throat’s really sore.”

Relena tsked in sympathy. “Go to the health center and get checked out. Drink some tea.”

“Ugh, tea.” Sally sat hunched over her cup of coffee. “Don’t judge me.”

“Just don’t give it to me,” Relena warned.

But two days later, _both_ of them were coughing up a lung, pasty-faced and aching. Relena lay huddled on the TV room couch, wrapped like a burrito in her thick, purple fleece blanket. “Eerrrrgggghhh.”

“That bad, huh?” Quatre gave her shoulder a brief pat. “Need anything?”

“A new head. Mine’s pounding,” she whined. “This sucks.”

“Poor baby.” The student book store ran out of cold tablets and Tylenol. Quatre washed his hands religiously and contemplated wearing a mask.

Duo caught it next, followed by Wufei, who threatened to smother him in his sleep. Trowa managed to catch an even uglier version of it with an ear infection. He texted him crying and sweating emojis canceling their study date. The nights were getting colder. Iria brought Quatre a set of flannel sheets for his bed. 

Heero had been quieter, lately; Quatre marked it up to the project that he had due the week of Thanksgiving. Until he started to cough.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Snotty, ragged and awful, if Quatre was being honest.

“M’fine.” Heero’s voice was a hoarse rasp. He cleared his throat a few times and went back to his econ notes. The wastebasket began to fill with used tissues, and Quatre emptied it out without argument. 

*

Quatre woke up to the sound of Heero vomiting into the trash around midnight. 

“Heero… ew. Wow. That sounds like it hurts.” Heero was curled over the can, retching and spitting out bile. He would catch his breath for a few seconds, and then he would heave again. “Geez…”

“Ugghhkkhhh…”

“That sounds bad, buddy.”

“God. I hate throwing up,” he moaned. Quatre wandered over, still bleary-eyed and squinting. He handed Heero a bunch of Kleenex. Heero wiped his wet eyes and sticky mouth. “Thanks.” He sounded miserable and his skin was gray.

“Need me to make a run to the store?”

“No,” Heero grumbled. He sat on his bed, looking indecisive about whether to get back into it, or if he should remain close to the trash can. Quatre made up his mind for him when he tied off the bag and replaced it with a fresh one.

“Lie down. Don’t catch a chill,” Quatre nagged. He shoved the can close to the head of the bed. “Just in case.”

Heero glared balefully up at him, but he muttered something that sounded like “Thanks” before he pulled the covers over his head.

Quatre headed to the vending machine downstairs and bought a couple of bottles of Sprite, tucking them into the mini fridge. Best to be prepared.

*

Heero wasn’t any better the next day. His hands shook as he got himself dressed.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to class in your condition.”

“I’ve got a chapter test at nine.”

“Heero. Seriously?”

“I’m not missing my test.”

“You look like hell.”

“It doesn’t actually _help_ when you tell someone that,” Heero told him. 

“Sorry.” Then, “But you do.”

Heero was still unsteady. “Later,” he told him as he headed for the door.

“Wait. Here.” Quatre reached into his closet and pulled out a long, green muffler. “Put this one. It’s windy out. Don’t catch a chill down your neck.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, you do. Come here.” Quatre wrangled him back from the door with a firm hand and tied the muffler around his neck, giving the ends a tug for emphasis.

“Thanks, Mom,” Heero groused. “Can I go, now?”

“Remember to cover your cough,” Quatre nagged before he let him go. “Don’t be a walking petri dish.”

“That’s still not helpful,” Heero tossed over his shoulder as he left.

When Quatre pondered it, that was the longest conversation they’d ever had.

*

 

Heero stumbled back in a couple of hours later, with a small, white paper pharmacy bag clutched in his fist. “Did they give you anything good?”

Heero opened his mouth to answer him, and the cough of a ninety-five-year-old, three pack a day smoker came out, instead.

Quatre pointed to Heero’s twin cot. “Okay. BED.”

“Anyone tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?”

Quatre simply walked over and gave Heero a little shove back against his bed, making him sit. He knelt beside him, untied his Doc Martens and pried them off his feet. “I can manage.”

“Famous last words.” Quatre went to take the scarf from him, but Heero swatted away his hands.

“S’warm. M’keepin’ it on.”

“You’re cold?”

Heero nodded as he crawled under the covers, giving a rough little shiver. Quatre turned up the thermostat in their room a notch and turned his studying music off. He stayed in the room and continued to study while Heero rested. When Heero started coughing again, Quatre stuffed another pillow under his head, against his protests.

But it helped. He eventually dropped off to sleep.

By the time dinner rolled around, Heero was looking the worse for wear.

“Don’t want anything. Just need Tylenol.”

“You need your next dose of keflex, too. You should take that with food.”

“You might as well tell me, ‘Here, Heero, throw up again.’”

“Honestly. It’s like reasoning with a two-year-old.”

“Are you calling me a two-year-old?” Heero glared up at him from under the covers. He almost looked cute, with his hair squooshed and sticking up here and there. “That’s not nice.”

“I’m being nice!”

“Are not,” Heero groused. “Fuck you.”

“HEY!” Quatre huffed and went to the fridge for one of the Sprites. “Here. Drink some of this with your meds.”

“Don’t want soda.”

“You need some calories. Might help your stomach.”

Heero groaned as he sat up just enough to take the pills that Quatre pressed into his palm. He drank a few grudging sips of Sprite and shoved it back at Quatre. Their fingers brushed with that contact; Heero’s were chilly. Quatre wasn't concerned, or anything.

“Happy now?”

“Made my day.”

“Well… _good_ , then.” Heero’s voice was petulant.

Quatre recapped the soda and was about to put it back in the fridge, but Heero mumbled at him from under the cocoon of blankets. “Can you just leave it out?” 

Quatre paused a beat, then he set the bottle within Heero’s reach. “If you want.” Heero rolled over onto his other side and tried to sleep. Quatre stared at his back, hovering. Thinking.

He grabbed his wallet and keys before he could overthink it, and he left the dorm, narrowly avoiding another “fuck off” from his sick roomie.

*

Quatre tried to tiptoe inside so as not to wake Heero, but his plastic shopping bags rustled as he set them down on his desk. Heero’s eyes were still glassy and bleary.

“Did you sleep?”

Heero shook his head. “Can’t. Still too cold.” As if on cue, his teeth chattered, and Quatre watched him squirm beneath the covers.

“Dude,” Quatre murmured. “That’s not good.”

“The Tylenol hasn’t kicked in y-yet.”

Quatre took another risk and felt Heero’s forehead. It blazed beneath his palm. “You’re hot.”

“I’m freezing!”

“No. You’re too hot. Look, I know you’re gonna hate me for even suggesting it, but let’s get you into the shower.”

“Y-you’re k-kidding me.”

“Nnnnnn-ope.”

And without further preamble, Quatre wrestled him free from the covers, despite Heero’s attempts at jerking them back up to his chin. “LEGGO!”

“Up and at ‘em!”

“I’m cold! You’re just giving me a DRAFT, asshole!”

“It’ll bring your temperature down,” Quat hissed, returning Heero’s scowl. “It doesn’t have to be a cold one. Just warm.”

Heero panted, swatting at Quatre’s hands. 

“That’s only gonna make it worse. Stop that,” he hissed.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Why? So you can keep me up tonight with your cough, or so I can watch you puke again?”

Heero recoiled, looking contrite. “Geez… sorry I kept you up. Jerk…”

“Come with me. Take a shower. Just a few minutes. It’ll make you feel less like crap.”

“I don’t want to get up.”

“I know  you don’t want to get cold-”

“M’dizzy. Every time I stand.”

Quatre’s face softened into more agreeable lines. “Dummy. Why didn’t you say so?”

Heero sighed and closed his eyes.

“Okay,” Quatre decided. “We’re taking a trip. Strip out of all that,” he told him, indicating his clothes. Poor guy hadn’t even changed into his pajamas. “You can use my robe, so you don’t have a lot of crap to carry back.”

Heero made a face. “Everyone’s seen you in that bathrobe.”

“So?”

“How’s that gonna look?” Heero gave him a jaundiced look.

“Very stylish,” Quatre countered. “C’mon. Up.”

Heero snorted under his breath. “M’only doing this so you’ll leave me alone.”

“Fair enough.” Quatre peeled back the covers, and this time Heero didn’t fight him. He rolled himself upright and took off Quatre’s scarf - he didn’t know why it pleased him to see Heero still wearing it - his flannel shirt, socks and skinny jeans. For the life of him, Quatre didn’t know how he managed to lie down comfortably in all that. He was about to leave on the undershirt, but Quat shook his head. “Just go with the robe.”

Heero glared at him.

“I won’t look. Promise.” Quatre turned his back on him for emphasis, and behind him, he heard the shifting and low thump of fabric hitting the floor. “We good?”

“Sure.” Quatre turned and found Heero huddled in his soft, dark blue terry cloth robe, rubbing his arms. He was still shivering and unsteady. Quatre caught him by the arm as he rocked slightly off balance. 

“C’mon.”

Quatre hurried him down the hall, ignoring a few brief glances from their neighbors as he walked Heero in his robe toward the mens’ showers. 

Relena caught sight of them as she came up from the stairwell. “You all right, Heero?” she asked.

“Working on it,” Quatre tossed over his shoulder as they hurried past, knowing Heero wouldn’t want to linger in his current state.

“You look pasty,” she told him.

“Thanks,” he replied, rolling his eyes before they ducked into the shower room.

“I’ll leave the towel on the hook.”

“Right…”

“Don’t turn up the water too hot… better yet, I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to do it!”

“Look, don’t run it too hot!”

“I won’t!” Heero’s voice was crabby and it cracked a little. “Just let me get this over with, so I can go back to bed!”

Quatre stepped in his way while Heero leaned against the wall, still wobbly. He _did_ look pasty. He slid back the shower curtain and reached for the dials. Heero shivered, still clutching at his arms. “You’re making me cold just listening to you.”

“Gee…”

“Okay. I’ll shut up.”

“Th-thanks.”

The spray hissed into the stall, throwing up billows of steam until Quatre turned it down a notch. He tested it on his wrist; it felt a few degrees cooler than the therapy pool at his gym. That would work. 

“Thanks, Jeeves.”

Quatre smirked. “Did you just call me Jeeves?”

“Did you just draw me a bath?”

“I just can’t with you. Here, hurry up and take your shower.”

Once Heero was safely behind the curtain with Quatre stationed nearby, robe looped over his arm, Quatre allowed himself to smile. 

His roommate _joked_ with him. Quatre almost wished he would get sick more often.

Almost.

*

 

Heero managed a few minutes, but he was still dizzy. Quatre steered him back to their room, and Heero swatted at him as he tried to dry his hair with the towel. “Leave me alone,” he fussed.

“Don’t go to bed with wet hair.”

“M’fine,” he complained. He’s stopped shivering, at least.

“God, you’re such a baby…” Quatre rubbed Heero’s hair, and Heero had little choice but to let him while he sat on the bed, still wrapped in the thick robe. His color looked a little better, but his eyes were still glazed. Heero shielded his cough in his sleeve; Quatre made a mental note to add the robe to his laundry run.

“You’re mean. Anyone ever tell you that you’re a real mean ass?” Heero huffed as Quatre rubbed his scalp. “Everybody tells me you’re so cute and sweet, but I’m gonna tell ‘em that’s a lie. That you’re really a sadist.”

“That might _improve_ my rep, then.”

Heero tsked, but he sighed as his head sagged back against Quatre’s chest as he continued to rub. Quatre paused and felt Heero’s forehead again, earning himself another scowl of annoyance. “You feel cooler.”

“M’tired.”

“Okay.” Quatre backed off and rummaged in Heero’s drawer, finding him clean boxers, an undershirt and his PJ bottoms. (All black, of course. Because, of _course_.) He turned his back while Heero shimmied into his clothes. He tried to bury himself the rest of the way under the blankets, but Quatre stopped him.

“Don’t overbundle.”

“M’cold.”

“I’ll turn up the heat a little, but don’t pile on the blankets, okay?”

“Eerrrrggggghhhh…”

“Heero.”

“ _Okay._ ” He pulled the bottom sheet, fleece blanket and comforter up to his chin and omitted the spare blankets he’d piled on earlier. “You suck.”

“You’re welcome.”

*

“How’s the sickie?” Duo inquired when he caught up to Quatre in the dining room line. 

“Grumpy.”

“He’s _always_ grumpy.”

“Oh, you haven’t _seen_ grumpy.” Duo snickered.

“Man, I feel ya. Last time ‘Fei was sick, I almost killed him. Guy’s got the worst sinuses in the world. Sounded pretty funny when he talked.”

“You don’t sound sympathetic.”

“It was entertaining. He wasn’t sympathetic when I caught it from him next.”

Quatre shuddered. That was what he feared more than anything, and he was popping Airborne tablets and practically drowning himself in hand sanitizer. 

“I hope this doesn’t last long.”

“Sally said she was up and around after about four days. She said the tonsils were the worst part.”

“Ew.”

“Hope it didn’t move into his ears,” Duo wondered.

Quatre silently agreed. That would _totally_ make a guy grumpy.

*

Quatre woke up that night not to vomiting, but to thrashing and squirming from the other bed. Quatre rubbed his eyes, barely able to read the clock. Heero’s breathing was uneven and punctuated by low grunts of discomfort, and then he emitted a tiny whimper that brought Quatre out of bed.

“What hurts?”

“My ear, damn it!” Heero’s body curled in a tight ‘C’ as he palmed it, and his voice sounded slightly wet.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol.” Quatre felt guilty; he’d missed Heero’s last dose, and now Heero was chattering again.

“Hurts,” he repeated. He sounded wretched. Quatre fumbled with the childproof bottle and shook out two pills and Heero’s keflex dose. He gave them to him with a half-empty bottle of water. Heero barely sipped it, since swallowing hurt. Tonsils _and_ ears, Quatre realized, like Sally had.

Poor baby…

Quatre took the bottle and set it within reach while Heero huddled miserably under the covers, still fetal. “I hate this,” he hissed, and in the dark, Quatre watched him swipe at his eyes. “My ear hurts. My throat hurts. My skin hurts every time anything rubs up against it wrong. M’cold again-”

Quatre knelt by the bed and his hand hovered over Heero’s back for a moment, before he gently flattened it against him and rubbed it in slow circles. Heero sighed and sniffled loudly, not quite glancing over his shoulder. “M’sorry,” Quatre murmured. “Sucks,” he added.

“I feel like crap.”

“I know.”

“Fuck, I hate this… I hate missing class. I’ve got so much I have to get done. I don’t have anyone to take notes for me.”

“Someone had to. Who else is in your section?”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll ask around.”

Some of the tension left his body, and Quatre continued to rub his back through the sheets. 

“Y’know what my mom used to do when I was sick? She stuck onions in my socks.”

Heero huffed. “Seriously?”

“I know, right? It was gross. I’d wake up with these slimy lumps when I would get up to go to the bathroom. She said it reduced fever.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“My grandmom.” Heero paused, and Quatre saw him mopping at his cheeks again, even though he wasn’t facing him. “She. She did this thing with Vicks. The rub in the blue jar. She’d take it and heat it up in a spoon with a match.”

“In a spoon?” Quatre wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“Worked better when it was warm. She’d melt it, and she’d dab it all over me. In weird places, like behind my ears and the bottoms of my feet.”

“Really?”

“Helped. Then, she’d iron a cloth and lay it on my chest.”

“Did it help?”

“It just made me feel better when she did it.” Heero was still shivering a little, and Quatre sat on the edge of the bed to give his knees a rest. He kept rubbing Heero’s back and shoulder with the goal of quieting his chills until the Tylenol could kick in. “I miss her so much.”

Oh.

Quatre tugged the covers further up over his shoulder to block out the draft. “She sounds nice.”

“She was. She took me away from my mom.”

Oh. Wow.

That answered all of Quatre’s questions with sharp, painful clarity.

“She made everything better.”

“Grandmas do that.”

“She bought me my guitar.”

“It’s nice.”

“Never wanted to put it down.”

“You still don’t.”

That might have been laughter from under the covers. Quatre rose from the bed, but Heero’s voice stopped him.

“Can you… can you cover my back?”

“You don’t want to get too hot,” Quatre argued.

“Can you lay up against it?”

“You mean… like-”

“I can’t stop shivering. It… it might help.”

“It wouldn’t be weird?”

“It would be warmer.” Heero’s voice was still a shaky, quiet rasp. “Would you mind it too much?”

“No. It’s… that’s fine.” Quatre tingled from a rash of goosebumps at the thought. At what Heero was asking. If anyone had told Quatre that his roommate, who _hated his guts_ , would invite him to snuggle with him, Quatre would have laughed outright and punched them in the face for the lie. Quatre pulled back the covers, and Heero edged toward the wall to give him room while Quatre climbed in. It was awkward, but Heero’s frame was narrow and firm, and Quatre gingerly pressed up against him, stomach grazing Heero’s back, but Heero reached for his wrist and wrapped Quatre’s arm around his ribcage. “Come in closer.”

“Okay.” Wow, he really _was_ shivering. Quatre curled his legs against Heero’s like a perfect set of spoons. Heero fidgeted; his ear still ached. Quatre adjusted them until his arm lay under Heero’s head. He tightened his grip on him and slowly exhaled. Heero smelled slightly sweaty; Quatre caught a remnant of his shampoo. Heero wiggled his feet and fidgeted some more, until his body relaxed by degrees. Quatre’s warm breath stirred the hairs at his nape.

As Quatre drifted off, listening to Heero’s breathing, tracking his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his undershirt, he wondered how they ended up here. And how  much Heero would hate him tomorrow, because so help him, Quatre was _enjoying_ this.

*

“Could you have picked a slimier soup?”

“Just eat it.”

“It’s gross.”

“You need the salt. And you’re already too skinny.”

Heero frowned at Quatre over the small, orange plastic bowl of Lipton noodle soup. But Quatre folded his arms and jutted his chin, daring Heero to argue with him. “I will hold you down and tip that down your throat, mister.”

“I’ll make you regret it.”

“I’ll still make you eat it.”

Heero opened his mouth, then closed it again. While Quatre was watching, he took one meager, disdainful sip. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Keep at it.”

They hadn’t talked about the night before. It was easier to talk about soup. 

*

 

Two days later, Heero was back in class, looking like a sneaky ninja in his usual uniform of all black and bundled to the teeth against the elements. Quatre missed the sight of him with his hair tousled against the pillows, arms and shoulder bared by his undershirt, those large, dark blue eyes drowsy and limpid. And he was back to ignoring his roommate.

Or so he thought.

Heero swept into their dorm, bringing the scent of the autumn breeze inside with him. His cheeks were rosy and he looked almost… chipper.

“Who are you, and what have you done to my roommate?”

“Hello, Quatre. Yes, my day was fine, Quatre. Thanks for asking.”

“You feel better, I take it?”

“I feel human again. Does that count?”

“If that means no puking, then yes.”

“Then, yes.” 

“Good. Iria threatened me with dire outcomes if I let you make her sick. She’s coming up on Friday.”

“Is she making you those cookies again?”

“Snickerdoodles? Probably.”

“Sweet.” Heero set down his books and took up his guitar, looping the strap over his shoulder. “She’s nice.”

Was that a compliment?

“Uh. Yeah. She, she is.”

Heero strummed a few chords, and his lips twitched as Quatre stared at him. Then, the opening bars of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted: Dead or Alive” sailed from the strings. Quatre gaped, then grinned.

“Are you kidding right now?”

“What?”

“I love that song!”

“I know.”

“You don’t love it.”

“No,” Heero agreed as he continued to play. And because Quatre’s plane of reality hadn’t turned itself far enough on its ear, Heero began to _sing along_.

“ _It’s all the same, only the names will change…_ ”

“Oh, my God.”

And Quatre sat rapt. Awed. Gobsmacked.

His grumpy roommate had a nice set of pipes.

And he’d been paying attention, apparently, to his preference for eighties bands. 

And… he was saying “Thank you.”

Quatre ducked his face; his eyes stung.

“You’re welcome,” Heero told him as he strummed the last few chords.

“That’s dirty,” Quatre told him.

“What? Why?”

“Because now I have to _like_ you, that’s why.”


End file.
